Pieta
by Nancy T
Summary: One-shot.  Castiel said that only death or a miracle could heal Sam's soul, but no one knew what was coming.  Based on an idea by Katy M VT and a great image by Meggin Lane.


**PIETÀ**

_I don't pretend to know how Dean's going to get Sam's soul back in his body, but thanks to ideas from Katy M VT and Meggin Lane, here's an idea of how his soul could be healed once it's back in there._

_The television show "Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

When Bobby opened the door Sam fell headlong across the threshhold. Dean caught him before he hit the floor, one hand catching the leather strap that bound Sam's arms behind his back, one hand grabbing Sam's arm, and exerted his strength to lower Sam to the floor gently. Sam hung limply from his restraint, laughing quietly, and kept laughing as he lay face-down on the hallway floor.

"Is he like this all the time?" Bobby asked in a near-whisper.

"No," Dean said. "Help me get him to a couch, would you?"

Bobby closed the door against the night's cold and they lifted Sam between them, Sam continuing to hang like a war protestor being dragged off to jail. They managed to get him to a semi-upright position and, as Bobby straightened Sam's shoulder, he found himself on the receiving end of an intense, weirdly malicious grin.

"You're good," Sam said. "Haven't seen Bobby in a long time, look just like him. You smell like crap, though." His head dropped, and even Bobby's reflexes couldn't stop Sam's teeth from raking the back of his hand as he pulled it away.

"Sorry," Dean said. "Shoulda warned you." He was tying one of Sam's ankles to the sofa leg.

"Haven't seen Bobby in awhile," Sam said again. "Jess, lotsa Jess, I hate her. Dean. Dad. Dad – "

He closed his eyes and began trembling.

"You're alive," Dean said in the tone of one repeating a mantra. He crouched on his haunches beside his brother. "You're real. I'm real. It's OK. You're alive. Sam? Talk to me, man. Say it with me. I'm alive – "

Sam was shaking violently, his eyes clenched tight shut. He began making little sounds in his throat.

"Crap," Dean said. "Sammy, please. Try to keep it down. You need the nutrition, OK? Try to keep it down, just – "

A pale almost purely liquid stream of vomit erupted from Sam's mouth, splattering his pants and the sofa. Dean jerked away and lost his balance, sitting flat on the floor, looking more defeated than Bobby had ever seen him.

"It was only soup," Dean said.

"I'll get him cleaned up."

"No, I'll do it."

"You need to stay here and keep an eye on him," Bobby said – because you don't tell Dean Winchester that he's plainly on his last legs and needs help. "I'll be back. Hey, if he's doing a lot of this he's dehydrated. Can I get him some water?"

"Yeah. He tolerates water pretty well."

Bobby took the chance, while in the kitchen, to run some cold water on the back of his hand and stanch the trickle of blood. He got a wet rag and a glass of water and went back into the living room.

Sam's head was tipped back on the couch and he was unconscious. Dean sat in the exact same position on the floor, watching him. Bobby put the glass down and glanced from the rag to Sam. "I don't want to – "

"He won't wake up," Dean said. "Not for awhile, you can go ahead." A quick smile. "The only problem is when he wakes up screaming while you're trying to negotiate an on-ramp."

The burly man was cleaning Sam and the sofa with surprisingly gentle deftness. "You drove all the way out here with him like this?"

"Yeah." Dean straightened his back, cleared his throat. "It's going to be a hell of a lot easier when he starts getting better."

Bobby shot him a quick glance. "Did Castiel have any idea how long?"

"Castiel doesn't know anything except that he can't heal Sam. He's gone to look up some other high-level angels, see what they can tell us. I guess they're in their war rooms, sticking pins in maps, while Castiel's leading the troops on the battlefield."

Bobby finished and sat down. "Well, I've got us a lot of literature on healing souls to look over. We'll find something. I've gotta warn you, there's nothing in there about this exact situation. Hell-time, Sam's been down there for over a century with Lucifer torturing him. The other souls that books talk about healing – they got pinpricks in comparison. But maybe there's some method we can goose to get Sam some real help. And there's a gal in San Francisco who's supposed to do some pretty good work."

Dean nodded, and for a moment they both watched Sam, who looked quite dead.

"I guess, from what Sam was saying, Lucifer would make himself look like people Sam trusted?"

"And torture him looking like that, yeah. It's hard to follow, but I think for awhile Lucifer and Michael beat the hell out of each other in their human hosts, and when that got too limiting they abandoned Sam's and Adam's bodies and just fought. Both of 'em would pop back into the human hosts long enough to keep the bodies alive, and then tear themselves out again. Michael focused on finding a way out of the cage. But, you know, Lucifer blamed Sam for his being back in the cage again – and he was right, of course – and I guess."

His voice stopped, as if that were the end of the sentence. He shifted his gaze, swallowed.

"He pretty much devoted himself to making Sam pay. Torture, rape, any kind of agony. And then he'd create an illusion that Sam had escaped, that he was in Heaven with Jess or back on Earth with me, and he'd spin them out for so long that Sam would start believing it. And the moment he was happy again – "

After a pause, Bobby asked, "Adam?"

Dean shook his head. "Crowley could get Sam's body out, but not his soul. We could get both souls out, but not Adam's body."

"So, Heaven, hopefully."

"Hopefully. Anyway, wherever Adam's soul is, it's got to be better than inside that cage."

Dean stood, slowly and achingly. Bobby asked, "Need something to eat?"

"No. Thanks."

"You need to get some sleep, though. Go on up to the guest room, I'll watch – "

A blurt of sound broke from Sam's lips. Dean was beside him in a moment. "It's OK. This is real. You're really – "

Sam's eyes opened wide and he screamed. And screamed again. Dean was holding his shoulder. "No one's hurting you! No one's going to!"

Sam threw himself back on the sofa, his pinioned arms beneath him, and screamed "Maaa! Maaa!"

It was an infant's cry for its mother. Dean tried to keep his own voice calm, but it was lost in the torrent of howls. The screams turned to inhuman noise, Bobby hadn't known a person could make sounds like that. Dean jerked back abruptly and ran for the bathroom.

Bobby leaped to his feet and ran into Castiel, who put three fingers on Sam's forehead. Instantly, Sam slept.

The toilet flushed, a faucet ran, and Dean came out of the bathroom, wiping his freshly rinsed mouth. "Hey, Cas," he said. "Good to see you. I wouldn't want Bobby to be the only one enjoying a visit from the Barf Brothers."

"Are you all right?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah. Sorry. Last time I heard sounds like that, I was making them."

He didn't add "in Hell," and didn't need to. He looked at Castiel and said roughly, "So give us the good news."

"A soul as badly damaged as Sam's can't be healed even by upper-level angels," Castiel said.

It was probably the answer Dean had expected, but it looked as though the words had punched him. He dropped into an armchair. "That's it? That's what they've got?"

"There are two options for healing such a soul," Castiel said quietly. "One of them is time."

"I've got nothin' but time."

"Much more than one man's lifetime," Castiel said. "Even if Sam lived a full lifespan – and under these circumstances that seems doubtful – even if he lived a full lifespan, he would continue in this kind of pain as long as he lived, and for undetermined time in Purgatory."

"Purgatory?" Anger was always energizing to Dean. "The guy sacrifices his body and his soul to stop the Apocalypse and his reward is Purgatory?"

"Please, Dean. Try to understand. A soul like Sam's can't – exist – in Heaven, not now. How can I explain this? It's as though – Suppose someone pulled a bird out of a nest, cut off its wings and beak. Putting the bird back in the nest won't keep it from horrible suffering. If there were someplace where the bird's wings and beak could be re-grown, that would be the place for the bird."

"And once Sam's soul is healed, then it's fit for Heaven. Where there's a war going on."

"You don't need to be concerned about that. Not even the war interferes with the progression of human souls. That's Joshua's province alone, and believe me when I tell you that he has more than enough power to keep human souls safe as they develop."

"So God takes off," Bobby said, "and lets his angels kill each other left and right, but he makes sure there's a Fort Knox for human souls?"

Was that a hint of a smile on Castiel's solemn face? "You know, rumor has it that Dad likes you better than us."

"Yeah, well," Dean said, "I've seen the inside of Fort Knox, and I'm not sure even Sammy is real eager to spend eternity hanging out in a rundown house with just a dog for company."

"That was just the playground."

"The – playground?"

"That's what I call it." Castiel glanced over as Sam shifted on the couch. "He should be fully unconscious. Having his arms bound behind is back is affecting his blood circulation. Can you untie him while he sleeps?"

"You don't know how he wakes up," Dean said. "But I'll tie his hands in front, that should help."

With assistance from Bobby, he did so, making sure the bindings allowed Sam's blood to flow freely but were securely fastened. Sam showed more agitation during the process, Castiel put him out again, and Sam, for the first time that night, looked like he was in a peaceful, natural sleep.

"This doesn't really have anything to do with Sam, but I'm curious about Heaven having a playground," Bobby said.

"Actually, it has everything to do with Sam." Castiel turned to face Dean squarely and opened his hands as though he were trying to sell something. "When souls first arrive in Heaven they experience everything that made them happiest on Earth. They're healthy and whole, they can indulge without harming themselves or others, they can experience anything from quietly reading a stack of books to attending an iron heavy concert."

"Heavy metal," Dean corrected.

Castiel nodded. "But you understand, Dean, this is no more the final development of the soul than infancy is the final development of the human body. Souls begin to yearn for more, and now there's no body, no fear or distraction, to prevent them from seeking it. They grow out of the playground to a different dimension, and – I believe – to dimensions past that. As they grow in understanding and power, they become so advanced that even Joshua doesn't track them anymore. They become – " Castiel groped for words – "completely fulfilled, they – they become what souls were meant to be."

Dean's eyes narrowed, and his and Castiel's gazes locked.

"I dunno," Bobby said. "The playground sounds pretty good to me."

"Of course it does, at this stage of your development." Castiel was talking to Bobby but looking at Dean. "And souls grow beyond it at different rates." Again that hint of a smile. "Just by chance, I know of two people who died on the same day. One was a theologian, considered very profound by his fellow humans, who is on the playground to this day. One was a Midwestern housewife, who outgrew the playground very fast. The point is that nothing harms a soul in Heaven, nothing prevents it from growing into a being of unfathomable power and joy, at its own pace, in its own way."

"So that's option one." Dean's tone was as hard as his eyes. "Let Sam die. Maybe help him along? So he can get going into Purgatory and eventually Heaven?"

Castiel looked at Sam, back at Dean. "If Sam could live with his internal organs torn out, how long would you ask him to live like that?"

"Well – long enough for us to be damn sure that there was no way to put 'em back in."

After a moment, Castiel nodded. "I understand."

Dean dropped back into the armchair and passed a hand over his face. "Can't wait to hear option two."

Castiel shrugged very slightly. "A miracle."

"Direct intervention by God."

"Yes."

Bobby expected Dean to burst into derisive laughter, but he didn't. He leaned forward and his voice was earnest. "Cas, if I thought there was any chance of it, I'd pray for it. I would. I'd grovel on my knees 24/7. But I've asked for a miracle before. I've known other people who asked for one. None of us got it."

"But miracles do happen."

"Not to this family."

"Wait a minute," Bobby said. "Intervention by God? I thought God was on vacation, or somethin'."

"He can't be found. That doesn't mean that he's not present. Human beings are aware of three dimensions, yes? Four, if you include the passage of time. Intellectually, you discuss the possibility of other dimensions, but you're not aware of them. Well, archangels are aware of 27 dimensions. Can you imagine the number God is aware of? Or could be in at any moment? Possibly advanced human souls may be able to sense his presence, but only possibly. And no one else but Joshua can. He could be in a parallel dimension alongside of us now, aware of every word we say, and none of your senses and none of my powers and no amulet ever devised would find him if he didn't want to be found."

"Right here beside us?" Dean looked up and over his shoulder into thin air. "Hi. Thanks for letting evil destroy my whole family."

Castiel lowered his head, and there was silence for a moment.

"Sorry, Cas," Dean said. "I know you did the best you could. It just looks like humans are going to have to take up the slack for Heaven. Again."

"You're tired," Castiel said. "You should sleep."

"Man, wouldn't I love to," and as Dean finished the sentence, Castiel took a step in front of him and touched three fingers to his forehead. Dean relaxed back into the chair, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

Castiel's fingers lingered on Dean's skin for a moment before he stepped back. Then he looked at Bobby. "They will both sleep profoundly for some time. You should rest too. You'll need it when Sam wakes, especially if you're trying to do research at the same time."

"And you're going back to the war? - Drop by anytime," Bobby finished, because Castiel was gone.

He glanced over at Dean, bent over Sam to study him carefully. But Sam showed no agitation at all, not so much as a finger twitch.

Bobby turned out both lamps that gave the room light and trudged upstairs.

Dean snored a couple of times, quietly. A neighbor's dog barked.

The moon rose in the window. Its light glinted in the salt poured plentifully along the sill.

A truck rumbled by on the highway.

Perhaps Castiel had underestimated the power of his angelic anesthesia on a soul as badly damaged as Sam's. But Dean showed no signs of stirring when Sam's body jerked suddenly and he began to yell.

He stopped himself, lying with his body tense, swallowing his screams, trying to look around without revealing that he was awake. He finally went completely quiet, only his head turning, his eyes wide.

Very slowly, he sat completely up, watching his sleeping brother as he did. He glanced down at his hands in some surprise. Then he gave a smile that looked nothing like his own and lifted one side of his jacket.

It wasn't easy to pull out of his jacket the broken piece of glass he'd scooped up when Dean had looked away for a moment. His hands hadn't been tied yet – he just wanted to have something sharp and dangerous for when he needed it – and a very small slit in his jacket lining had been all that was needed to store it there. With his hands bound, it was hard to work the shard out of the tiny slit. But he managed it, and set to work scraping the edge along leather and rope, his gaze shifting between Dean and the door to the hallway, laughing in a breathy almost silent cackle. In the dark and in his haste, he cut his own skin several times. He showed no reaction when he did this.

His hands were free. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his body tense, watching Dean, wondering if he dared to stand.

A truck slammed over a bump on the highway. Sam leaped to his feet, headed for the door. His tethered foot flew out from underneath him and he fell with full momentum, striking his head on a side table and crashing to the floor unconscious.

Dean flinched and his face tensed. But as the silence stretched out, his sleep deepened again.

Delicate hands slid under Sam's torso, lifting him a little, turning him face up. He was gathered up by a blonde woman dressed all in white who was kneeling beside him, one arm supporting his back and gripping under his arm, the other hand cupping his head where his wound was bleeding. Mary Winchester rocked her younger son like the baby he'd been when she died.

When she relaxed her hold he lay still, stretched across her lap, his neck resting on the arm that supported him and his head tipped back. His arm lolled onto the floor.

Mary lifted her face and spoke softly to the empty center of the room. "I know you're here."

She stretched out her hand as if in entreaty, and the moonlight rippled across Sam's blood on her fingertips.

"Please heal my son. His life has been damaged, and now his soul shredded, because I opened a door to evil. He's paid enough for my crime. Please heal him.

"If he cannot live, I ask that you make his soul fit for Heaven immediately. Let him know the joy that he deserves.

"And if – " She was silent for a moment.

"If he must go through Purgatory, I ask that you let me be with him. I know what this means. Regression would be hard to endure. I'm willing to endure it. I didn't protect him on Earth. Let me do it in Purgatory."

She lowered her hand to rest it on Sam's chest and gazed into his face before speaking again. "Animals don't know justice. The concept was given by you to us. I ask for your justice for my son."

Sam inhaled deeply, sharply. Still unconscious, he let the breath back out in a long slow sigh, and perhaps only a somewhat advanced soul could have seen the noxious foulness that was leaving him through his nostrils, his mouth.

Mary gathered him up again, hugging him so hard she could feel his heart beating. Very gently she laid him on the floor, and stood. "Thank you."

She crossed the room, bent a little and whispered into her older son's ear. "It goes so fast. The happiest life on Earth is just a hint of what's to come. And the most horrific, most pain-filled life is simply a nightmare. It may give you insight. But once you waken you know that the pain only seemed real for a moment."

She straightened and looked from one of her sleeping sons to the other. "I love you both."

A lamp snapped on and Bobby yelled, "Damn it! Dean!"

The third time that his name was shouted Dean woke, to see Bobby kneeling on the floor applying pressure to a gash on Sam's head.

"Crap! Where's the first aid kit?"

"That cabinet." Bobby gestured and Dean went to get it.

"What happened?"

"Don't know. I came down to check on you boys and found him like this."

Dean assessed the situation while he unpacked gauze and bandages. "His hands are free. His wrists all cut to hell. He must've hidden something sharp from me. He made a run for it and forgot his foot was tied. That's the last time I let an angel knock me out."

Sam's eyes opened. "Dean?"

Dean tossed the gauze to Bobby and pinned Sam's arm to the floor. "It's OK. I'm real. You're really here. We're not going to hurt you."

"Yeah, I know, Dean," Sam said quietly. "I know."

The others both froze, staring at him. Dean swallowed hard, as if to choke down any hope rising in him. "What – do you know?"

"Well, I know I'm not in the cage anymore. I know you got my soul back into my body a couple days ago. And I know your reflexes are really good when you're trying to merge onto a highway and someone starts screaming and grabbing at the wheel."

Bobby moved gauze toward Sam's head and Sam waved it away. "I don't think it's bleeding actually. This all feels dry." He touched his gory face.

"How?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. I was sure I was still in Hell, and even if I wasn't I was sure you were planning to kill me because you were jealous. A noise scared me and I started running and fell." He gave Dean a weak grin. "Knocked some sense into me, I guess."

"That's great, Sam. I'm really glad."

Sam chuckled right into his brother's face. "Yeah, if I were you I wouldn't trust me either. I'll tell you what – " He sat up, noticed the tie around his ankle, grimaced. "If it'll make you feel better you can tie me up again. For two hours max. But I'm telling you, I'm back." His gazed went up to the glass of water Bobby had brought him earlier. "Can I have that now?"

Bobby and Dean exchanged a look. Bobby handed Sam the glass and Dean braced himself. But Sam just chugged the water and put the glass on the floor. "God, that's good. And I am. So. Hungry."

"Well." Bobby stood. "Let's see what we can do about that."

Dean untied Sam's foot, still watching him closely, and said straight-faced, "I was going to kill you because I was jealous? What would I be jealous of?"

Equally straight-faced, "My way with women."

"Man. You were deluded."

Dean stood and helped Sam stand. Rather shakily, Sam took two steps to the couch and sat down. Dean got a moist towelette from the first aid kit, tore off its plastic wrapping, and gave it to Sam for his face.

"So that's it." Dean was still studying him. "A hundred years in Hell, and you just – don't remember it."

"I remember it, Dean. And I can't, I don't want to think about it. But now I have that choice. Before, I couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop living it. Now it's like there's a pane of thick glass between me and it. I can see it, I remember - " His eyes closed and his breath sped up and Dean tensed, but Sam simply finished, "I don't want to talk about it, OK?"

"Yeah, OK, Sammy."

Sam's eyes opened. "Dean? How did I get well?"

It was a five-year-old's question to his omniscient older brother, and in that moment Dean knew, however much trauma still remained, that he had Sam back. His eyes blinked fast and he had to steady his voice before he replied, "Well, according to Cas, there were only two ways you were going to be healed. Purgatory or a miracle."

Sam looked around. "Bobby's not the best housekeeper, but I wouldn't call this Purgatory."

"And I basically laughed at the idea of a miracle. Guess I owe someone an apology."

Sam gave a little lopsided grin. "Where you gonna send the letter?"

"I don't know. Maybe toss it into the air beside me."

Sam looked puzzled, but content. Dean closed his eyes for a long moment, opened them with an alert gaze. Out in the kitchen, Bobby was clattering a couple of dishes. A truck rumbled by on the highway.

THE END

_ For those who are interested, the relevant posts are 1,746 and 1,759 on the Iter Itineris thread of Linnie McCary's and mirandler's "Crossroads" forum._


End file.
